


Some kind of sick joke (And we're the damn punchline)

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clint Feels, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint Uses Words, Coming Out, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, M/M, Phil Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I know it's hard," Phil drops his gaze, unable to meet Clint's eyes. "I know you're angry at me for keeping it a secret. I'm sorry for not telling you, but..." he clenches his fists, steeling himself, "I can't do this. I can't compromise myself just to pretend that we're still normal, that we're still functioning. I- I can't change it, Clint, as much as I want to, and I told you, nothing between us has to change, I'm the same person I've always been, and I've always been..."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He can't even say the word.</i>
</p><p>---</p><p>Ever since Phil came out to Clint, Clint has been withdrawn, distant. Phil has been trying to work through it, trying to give Clint space, but... it's not working.<br/>They're not working.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some kind of sick joke (And we're the damn punchline)

Phil swallows.

 _You can do this_ ,  _Coulson_ , he tells himself.  _You can do this_.  _You just_...  _need a few more minutes_ ,  _that's all_.

Phil heaves a sigh, because his internal encouragement isn't helping in the slightest, and knocks on the door.

"Come in, Phil," comes the subdued reply, and Phil feels a bittersweet smile quirk his mouth, because Clint can unerringly tell it's him when he's at the door. He's tried so many different things over the years, experimented with varying rhythms, changes in speed and location on the door, even with the tried and tested shave-and-a-haircut, but to no avail.

"Clint?" he calls, when the door swings open under his trembling fingers, revealing an unoccupied living room.

"In the kitchen."

The knot of unease that's been festering in Phil's belly over the past few days clenches tight, and he fights down a wave of nausea. The days when Clint would pop out with a cheery wave and a bright smile seem so far removed from the impartial greeting he receives now, after stepping foot inside the apartment for the first time in two days, and Phil bites back the wave of regret, the wave of _loss_ , because he knows he'll have enough time to wallow in it later. "Can you come to the living room, please? I want to talk."

Phil inwardly cringes at the blandness of his own voice, and when Clint emerges from the other side of the tiny apartment, he hurriedly schools his features into an even neutrality. Clint's eyes go wide, their arresting colors even more striking than usual in his pale face, before his entire expression contorts into a careless smile. Phil can practically see the walls going up, then, Clint's eyes shuttering, hiding his emotions carefully under a cheerful facade.

"You called?" he asked, and Phil can hear the tightness underlying his tone, the worry he's trying so hard to hide, and for a moment, he can't speak, because this is  _Clint_ , this is Phil's best friend since forever, the person Phil trusts unreservedly without a second thought, and the thought of going through with the idea that earlier seemed like the best option is enough to make him feel physically ill, his insides curdling as he struggles to keep himself in check.

"Can... can you take a seat?" Phil finally manages, when the roiling of his stomach eases, and Clint promptly sits down on the edge of the sofa, casually smoothing down his jeans, but Phil isn't fooled, can see the way his fingers catch at the material, because Clint is _nervous_ , _he's making Clint nervous_ ,  _oh god_ -

Clint is just staring at him, and Phil can read the emotions hidden behind the forced cheerfulness in his eyes, can see the fear, the begging, the  _pleading_ , and his heart aches because _this is it_. He's going to do this.

"I-" Phil swallows, the noise too loud in the dead silence of their apartment, and Clint flinches for the briefest instant before his face smooths into impassivity again. "I think I should move out."

Clint's hands still, and his entire body goes rigid, the mask he's been wearing finally slipping, and his eyes are wild, miserable, _anguished_ , but Clint has had years of practice controlling himself, and Phil's heart lurches in his chest as Clint visibly pulls the shattered remains of his disguise together, painting on a thin veneer of control, the unrestrained emotions written so blatantly across his face fading in less than a heartbeat.

"It's- It's obvious that it's not working," Phil continues, and the words begin tumbling out. "Ever since I, I told you, last week, you've been distant - cold - and even though you say it's fine, that it's working, I can see it's not fine, it _definitely_  isn't fine, and I've tried not to talk about it, tried to give you space, but... it's just _not working_."

Clint's jaw tenses, but apart from that, he remains motionless, staring at Phil, his entire face blank, and Phil knows that Clint's keeping himself so still because if he moves, Clint will break. He'll lose control, he'll cry like he's let himself cry in front of Phil so many times, the only person Clint ever let himself seek comfort from, and Phil can feel a deep ache spearing through his chest at the realization that Clint isn't letting himself cry because  _he doesn't trust Phil anymore_ , doesn't trust him enough to show weakness, show vulnerability.

"I know it's hard," Phil drops his gaze, unable to meet Clint's eyes. "I know you're angry at me for keeping it a secret. I'm sorry for not telling you, but..." he clenches his fists, steeling himself, "I can't do this. I can't compromise myself just to pretend that we're still normal, that we're still functioning. I- I can't change it, Clint, as much as I want to, and I told you, nothing between us has to change, I'm the same person I've always been, and I've always been..."

He can't even say the word, feeling the concentration of Clint's focus searing into him, and it feels like he can't take in enough air, his breaths coming in short, shallow gasps, choking on the tangible tension vibrating in the air.

Clint's voice cuts through the silence. "So that's what you're calling it now."

His voice is dull, dead, devoid of emotion, flat when it should be questioning, subdued, and Phil grits his teeth, scrunches his eyes shut, because _he can't cry_ ,  _not now_ , when he can feel Clint's gaze on him, an almost painful intensity

"Just now, you said you tried to give me space," Clint continues, and Phil snaps his head up in surprise, because that's _not_ what he expected, he expected Clint to be absolutely livid, yes, but not about... _Phil leaving him_... _alone_. Clint's eyes are burning, piercing, accusing, as he spits out, "I think we both know you were lying."

Now he can finally hear the barest hint of the fury he knows Clint is hiding, the faintest whisper of the emotions he's concealing. Clint laughs, short and sharp and almost hysterical. "You tried to give me _space_? Don't you  _dare_  bullshit me. You left because you were afraid, you were afraid of what I might say, of what I might do, and you know what? It felt an awful lot like you were pulling away. I've been thinking a lot, lately, because as you're well aware of, I've had a  _lot_  of spare time-"  _because you weren't here_  goes unsaid, and Phil reels backwards as if slapped, the force of Clint's anger almost as strong as a physical blow, "And I've gotta admit, Phil, that this thing between us feels like some kind of sick joke. Do you _really_ think I can hate you? Do you  _really_  think that telling me you're gay could ever make me think of you differently, make me respect you less, make me love you less?!"

"No, I-" Phil starts, but Clint cuts him off, and it's just as well, because Phil doesn't even know what he was going to say, because _Clint just said he loves Phil_ \- Clint, the very reason Phil had realized his sexuality, from the way he couldn't look away from his eyes, his arms, his smile, the way the butterflies fluttered in his stomach when he made Clint laugh, with the heady rush of pride, knowing _I did this_ \- Clint, who's rising off the couch, eyes burning with unleashed rage, striding forward, pushing into Phil's space.

"Exactly!  _You_!" Clint levels a trembling finger at him, jabbing at his chest. "That was all you considered, when you came out! You didn't take a moment - not even one moment - to think about what this might mean for me! You know, it's not like I just find out that my best friend is gay every other week or something- You didn't let me catch up to what you were saying, to decide what I was going to say, to even show you that your sexuality casts no aspersion on the way I view you, you didn't even let me talk! You brought me in here, into this very same room, and  _you didn't even give me time to process before the door was closing on you on your way out_! And..." Clint's voice cracks, and he scrunches his eyes shut, and Phil's stomach has been clenching tighter and tighter with every word that fell from Clint's lips, twisting, agonizing pain matched only by the crushing ache deep in his chest, but it's _nothing_ compared to the way he's dying inside now, slowly but surely, because Clint is _crying_.

"And you know what the punchline is, Phil?" Clint finally asks, voice choked, husky, blinking back tears, eyes cold, flinty, condemning, and Phil wants to say  _No_ , wants to turn and walk out and leave because Clint's ripped his heart out of his chest, and a cold is spreading out of his very core, chilling him to the tips of his fingers, spiking through his veins, but he can't. Clint is right, Phil  _had_  been a coward, he'd decided that Clint was going to react badly and ran away without even giving him a chance to prove himself,  _just like everybody else in Clint's life_. He bites his lip, a sharp ache that doesn't fully register, detachedly noting the pain as he stays silent, waiting for Clint to continue, because he owes Clint this, owes Clint so much more than just _this_.

"The damn punchline is that you were so worried about all the ways things might change when I found out is that you didn't even stop and consider- maybe I  _wanted_  them to change?" Clint lets out a shaky exhale. "That maybe- maybe I'm gay as well, have been gay for my entire life? That maybe I've never even bothered experimenting with anyone since I knew that you'd ruined me for every other guy, that no one - no one - could ever match up to, to the impossible standard you set?" Clint lowers his eyes, then, and it's like a physical weight falls off of Phil's shoulders, and he can finally breathe again, only he isn't. He's holding his breath, waiting for Clint to continue, because he'd never even let himself imagine that the feelings he'd had for Clint _ever_ had a chance of being returned.

"That maybe I've been in love with you for as long as I've known myself, resigning myself to, to pining away when you met a nice girl and settled down and had 2.1 kids in- in a house in the suburbs?" Clint wipes away his eyes with a watery laugh. "Huh? Did you _ever_ consider that?"

Phil clears his throat. "No." he husks, his voice rusty, gravelly with pain, and Clint smiles mirthlessly. "I never considered that."

Clint nods, as if he'd known that was what Phil was going to say. "You can leave, if you want," he says, and this time, the flatness of his voice is unforced. "I know you probably hate me after this. I won't hold it against you."

Phil finally finds his words. "I could never hate you," he gasps, and Clint's head jerks up, his eyes icy, frigid, face contorting into a livid glare.

"Cut the fucking crap, Phil," he snarls. "We both know you do, or at least want to. You don't need to spare my fucking  _sensibilities_."

The pieces left of Phil's heart break again, because he's fucked up, he's fucked up  _so bad_ , because Clint trusted him, Clint  _loved_  him, and in return, all Phil's done is push Clint away, make him feel useless, abandoned... unwanted.

Clint laughs miserable. "I get why you want to, I really do. Hell, even I'd leave me, if I could."

"Stop." Phil finally manages, through the haze of his self loathing, his eyes burning, because Clint can't say that, he can't let Clint even think that, but he has, because he's turned his back on him, in the time Clint needed him most. " _I don't want to leave_."

Clint blinks, surprise flickering across his features for the briefest moment, before his eyes shutter again. "Good."

It's like a punch to the gut, and Phil instinctively curls back in on himself. "That's not what I meant, Clint," he rasps, and Clint looks away, huffing a resigned sigh.

"Fine."

But it's not fine, it most fucking definitely is  _not fine_ , and just thinking of how lost, of how bereft, of how  _betrayed_  Clint must feel right now is enough for Phil to find his voice again, to try and fix this, somehow, to salvage what's left of their relationship. "I... I didn't consider you being gay, or not dating other guys because of me, or being in love with me," Phil says, and when Clint just closes his eyes, the very air is punched out of Phil's lungs because Clint is preparing to be hurt, hurt by _Phil_. "But-" he forces out, and Clint tenses up, as if bracing to be struck. "But... that was because I didn't  _let_  myself consider it."

It takes a moment for Clint to turn back to Phil, and when he does, he's still guarded, cautious, wary. "I've had a crush on you ever since I was twelve," Phil manages, and Clint's mask shatters, in a single, breathless moment, betrayal and anguish and misery warring with confusion and bewilderment and- and something that looks a lot like the very beginnings of a fledgling hope. "I've been absolutely infatuated with you even before I understood what being gay meant. You've always been first, for me, my first priority, my first friend, my first love. And... and I didn't want things to change, because I was so fucking _scared_ -" he can feel the tears falling, but he just plows on, "So fucking scared of _losing_ you, Clint, I was so fucking terrified, because I love you so much, and I couldn't even imagine a life without you, so I tried to lessen the blow, to reduce the impact, to make it..."

"To make it easier... right?" Clint asks, and though his posture relaxes, fists unclenching, his eyes are still locked on Phil's, blaming, criticizing. "Newsflash, Phillip, 'easy' doesn't work. Friendships, romances, _any_ sort of relationship needs investment, and a whole fucking _lot_ of work, because you can't just kiss and make up and sweep everything under the rug, because it festers there, sometimes for years, before it all bursts out in a rush, and suddenly you're saying things you never meant to say, consumed with regret over the words that you should've said instead, but it's no use, because that's _it_. It's over, you can't ever rebuild again, because there's always going to be that niggling _what if_ , the little voice in your head that will analyze and criticize and question, and ask, _Are you sure this is real_? _Or were the words that left me crushed and broken and damaged the words that are really true_?"

Phil lowers his eyes, guilty beyond measure, because Clint _knows_ , of _course_ he knows, Clint has to have known with the terrifying life he's been handed. Clint gently flicks him on the chin, forcing him to look back up again, and this time, his eyes are warmer, softer. "You can't do that, Phil," he says, gentle and low. "You can't just take the easy way out. We need to talk things out, like we've done all these years, like we're doing right now. I know it's painful, difficult, but god, Phil, you know me, know me better than I do myself sometimes, you have to know that no matter what you do, how horrible you think it is, how ashamed you are of it, you can _always_ tell me."

"I know," Phil finally chokes out, because he knows, _how_ he knows, because Clint has been the only person Phil has ever felt secure enough with to talk to, properly _talk_ to, revealing the emotions and the worry and the fear lying underneath his bland mask, the first person he's ever dared come out to. Clint smiles, shy, but his eyes are still wounded, still _hurt_ , and all Phil wants to do is take the pain away. "Just promise me one thing, Phil."

Phil nods.  _Anything_.

"Next time, don't run away." Clint's hands fist in the hem of his shirt. "I can't talk to you, I can't work it out if you don't stay here with me. Please... please don't leave me behind."

Through the lump in his throat, Phil finally manages to choke out, "I could never leave you behind," and suddenly Clint is in his arms, solid and warm, holding him tight, and Phil tucks his head into the crook of Clint's neck and just lets himself  _breathe_.

"Yeah?" Clint asks, then, tiny and uncertain, and Phil realizes that he's not the only one who needs reassurance, not the only one who was so scared of losing each other.

He closes his eyes, and just lets himself melt into Clint, pressing against his side. "I couldn't stop loving you even if I tried," he murmurs, and Clint breathes out slowly, the rhythm of his racing heart a faint tattoo against Phil's skin, and that's how they stay, for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> /cue PWP
> 
> Tagged for happy ending because I actually can't read stuff that has anything worse than an ambiguous ending, and even that's a stretch. And if you didn't get it, the "Coming Out" tag doesn't refer to Phil, but rather to Clint. Plot twist?
> 
> A resounding Thank You! to Daz, for listening to my vent and letting me bounce this idea off you. I owe you one.


End file.
